GIFT  OF 


Cr~° 


MEMORIAL  ODE 

AND    OTHER    POEMS 

ALPHONSO    G.    NEWCOMER 


THE  BOOKSTORE 

STANFORD   UNIVERSITY 

1913 


Copyright,   1913 

by 
MRS.  C.  M.  NEWCOMER 


ALPHONSO  GERALD  NEWCOMER 

Mount  Morris,  Illinois 
September  13,  1864 

Stanford  University,  California 
September  16,  1913 


312441 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Memorial    Ode 7 

To   Mrs.   Jane   Lathrop    Stanford           .        .        .  17 

Stanford    Memorial    Church  18 

Jane    Lathrop    Stanford 22 

The    Old    and    the    New 23 

Plato  Passes 27 

Winter  in  Santa  Clara  Valley        .        .        .        .  33 

Cui    Bono           ........  34 

Beyond  the  Pale 40 

Counterpoise 43 

Palingenesis        .        .        .        ;        .        .        .        .  44 

Pantheism 50 

Questing 51 

Bacchanalia 52 

Loss  or  Gain 55 

Mutability           .                        57 

Ballade    of    Light   Loves         .        .        .        .        .  60 

Rondeau 62 

Aubade        .        . 63 

"The  Dews  Lie  Thick" 66 

"Sit    Closer,    Sweet" 68 

Eerie   Time 70 

'The  Builders  Builded" 72 

At  Sea 76 

Gibraltar             76 

Capri 78 

Sorrento 79 

Albergo   Santa   Caterina 80 


PAGE 

Canto  Dell'Amore      ....-•• 

Ave  Maria 

Petrarca:    In  Morte,  LII 

LIII 84 

LIV 85 

From  the  Japanese 88 


MEMORIAL  ODE 
(Read  at  the  Founder's  Day  exercises,  March  9th,  1894.) 

No  LIFE  is  lost,  one  says ;  no  man's  work  dies 
Utterly;  none  that  looks  upon  the  skies 
But  leaves  some  record  as  secure  as  they 

From  death  and  death's  decay. 
Lo,   this   is   fate.      Put   forth   thy   strong   hand 

where 

Men  labor  in  Time's  garden-plot  to-day, 
Eternity  shall  find  the  impress  there. 

And  haply  this  may  be. 

But  one  says,  Nay,  there  is  naught  that  abides. 
Time  is  a  wide  unfathomable  sea 

'Neath  whose  recurrent  tides 
Are  swallowed  up  all  things  implacably. 
This   rock-built   earth   whereof   man   makes   his 
home 

Is  less  than  the  sea's  foam ; 
The  galaxies  of  stars  that  seem  to  him 
Perdurable  as  time,  like  bubbles  swim 
Upon  its  surface  and  like  them  will  burst ; 
Yea,  time  itself  that  swallows  up  all  these 
Must  yield  in  turn,  the  last  lost  as  the  first, — 

Must  sink  whence  it  arose, 

Flow  backward  whence  it  flows, 
Into  eternity's  soundless  shoreless  seas. 

[7] 


What  may  be  true?     Is  life  less  full  or  fair, 
Does  deeper  darkness  gather  o'er  men's  eyes 
Than  when  our  fathers  importuned  the  skies 

For  light  withholden  there? 
The  sun  shines  warm  to-day  as  yesterday, 
The  green  grass  fails  not  when  the  rains  return, 
And  ivy  twines  about  the  burial  urn, 
And   summer   winds   through   leafless   branches 

play. 

Hearken,  by  day,  by  night,  and  thou  mayst  hear 
Ascending  ever  one  unchanging  tune, 
The  voice  of  all  earth's  choristers  a-croon, 

The  world-song  low  and  clear. 
No  age  hath  listened  for  this  song  in  vain; 
Though  one  voice  dies  another  swells  the  strain, 
And  Homer  calls  and  Shakspere  answers  Here! 
And  loss  is  balanced  by  unfailing  gain. 

Yet  there  is  loss.     The  splendid  perfumed  rose 
That  blooms  to-day  within  thy  garden-close — 
Ah,  like  it  is  but  is  not  yet  the  flower 
Thou  wovest  once  in  one  fair  maiden's  hair 
To  shed  its  perfume  and  its  splendor  there 

And  crown  love's  supreme  hour. 
And  though  this  rose  as  that  be  fair  and  sweet, 
Yea,  though  all  rose-delights  in  this  rose  meet, 
Too  well,  too  well  thou  knowest  it  hath  no  power 
Save  in  a  mocking  vision  to  recall 

Youth's  vanished  festival. 
Ay,  there  is  loss.    Though  rose  return  for  rose, 

Somewhither  each  one  goes 

[8] 


Nor  comes  again  in  its  own  form  and  hue; 
And  love  that  springs  from  dead  love's  urned 
repose 

Makes  not  the  old  joy  new. 
Ah  for  this  transitory  human  life, 
Where  at  the  last  all  strivers  cease  from  strife 
And  over  them  and  theirs  is  cast  the  spell 

Of  death's  Irrevocable! 

Where  unto  them  that  have  so  nobly  striven 
For  heaven's  best  boon,   behold  what  boon  is 

given : 

A  little  time  of  hopes  and  joys  and  fears, 
A  little  sound  of  music  in  their  ears, 
A  little  light  upon  their  eyes  and  then 

Darkness  again. 

Prayer  shall  avail  not  to  avert  this  doom; 
For  man  and  all  that  man's  hand  fashioneth 
Shall  find  within  the  wide  domain  of  death 

An  unremembered  tomb. 

But  hold!     The  eyes  of  men 
Made  keen  with  penetrating  through  the  veil 
Behind  which  matter  hides  it  from  our  ken, 
Have  found,  past  all  doubt's  mockery  to  assail, 
An  immortality  within  the  clod, 
An  essence  that  shall  live  unchallenged  on 
Though  the  live  light  of  sunlit  heaven  should 

fail 
And  earth  wait  vainly  for  one  darkling  dawn, — 

Perchance  incarnate  God. 


[9] 


Pent  in  the  silent  caverns  of  the  earth, 
Scarce  stirred  since  the  world's  birth, 

Or  brought   where   the   rains   nourish,   the   sun 
warms, 

To  gather  vigor  of  the  sun  and  rains 

And  pass  through  thousand  Protean  forms 

Of  blade  and  blossom,  stone  and  beast  and  tree 
And  man's  supremacy, 

Through    change    unchanged   this    essence    still 
remains. 

The  essence?      Are  the  forms  abolished  then? 

Not  so;  these  too  abide, 

As  in  the  ocean's  tide 
Abides  forever  the  high  curling  crest 

Though  filled  with  all  unrest 
And  molding  crestwise  ever  and  again 
New  waters  gathered  in  its  wanderings  wide 

Upon  the  ocean's  breast. 

Nay,  not  the  clod  alone, 
The    gross    dense    matter    whereof    worlds    are 

made, 

Hath  life  beyond  this  life  of  light  and  shade — 
The  form  it  clothes  is  deathless  as  God's  own 

And  was  not  born  to  fade. 
What  hand  so  cunning  can  destroy  one  line 

Of  God's  deep-wrought  design? 
Shatter  the  dew-drop  globed  upon  the  grass — 

The  fragile  globule  flies 

To  thousand  atomies, 
Yet  each  retains  the  outline  of  the  mass 

And  sphered  perfection  lies. 

[10] 


Or  loose  a  feathered  arrow  from  its  place — 
Thy  straightening  bow  forgets  its  bended  grace ; 

But  upward  turn  thine  eye 

And  mark  against  the  sky 
Thy  flying  shaft  the  bow  of  beauty  trace. 
The  fair  proportions  of  the  Parthenon 

Untouched  by  time  live  on. 
The  Coliseum's  springing  arches  spread 

Above  thy  reverent  head. 
What  though  worlds  perish?   Other  worlds  shall 

sweep 

Their  paths  appointed  and  their  contours  keep. 
What  though  men  die?     Espied  or  unespied, 

Somewhere  their  forms  abide. 
For   though   thou   tread   from   us   where   death 

unbars 

The  way,  withdrawing  thy  dear  face,  and  though 
We  moan  Not  here!  Not  here!  somewhere  we 

know 
In  lines  of  light  outstreaming  past  the  stars 

Thy  living  lineaments  glow. 

Death  is  but  dissolution  of  life's  bond. 

For  soul  and  body  strive  a  little  space 

To  run  together  in  the  equal  race, 

Until  one  calls  and  one  does  not  respond 
And  death  bids  both  give  place. 

Body  and  soul  go  thenceforth  each  his  way. — 

Fair  Helen  was  but  is  no  more,  we  say; 

And  yet  we  know  that  somewhere  Helen's  dust 
Sleeps  in  the  silent  earth, 
Or  wakes  to  flower-bright  birth, 

Or  panders  still  to  man's  insatiate  lust. 


And  Helen's  beauty,  like  a  bale-fire  set 

On  Skaian-portal,  holds  us  spell-bound  yet. — 

Beneath  the  pavement  of  Ravenna  lies 

All  that  remains  of  him  whose  bitter  fare 

Of  alien  bread  sustained  him  to  endure 

The  apocalypse  that  blasts  our  weaker  eyes, 

The  human  soul  laid  bare. 
All  that  remains?     Nay,  Giotto's  penciled  truth 
Hath  given  over  to  immortal  youth, 
Unmarred  by  grief's  and  exile's  signature, 

Fresh  with  life's  morning-kiss, 
The  clear  grave  face  that  looked  on  Beatrice. 
And  so  he  lives,  dissevered  soul  and  sense. 
Yet  such  dividual  life  were  naught, 

But  that  each  poet's  dower 

Gives  him  creative  power 
To  eke  out  nature's  poor  incompetence 

And  justify  his  hour. 
For  his  transcendent  vision  recombines, 

Refining  still  away 

What  imperfections  marked  them  for  decay, 
The  crumbling  earth  and  fleshless  pictured  lines 

Of  Giotto's  cunning.     Yea, 
Divining  half  from  what  the  live  hands  wrought 

With  impress  large  and  strong, 
And  half  from  what  the  living  accents  taught, 

He  pieces  out  the  whole — 

Conjecturing  the  soul 
From    the    soul's    deeds,    the    singer    from   the 

song- 
Till  recreate,  life's  laurel  round  his  head, 
Lo  Dante's  self,  immortal,  perfected. 

[12] 


A  poet's  dream?     Ay,  so. 

Yet  who  shall  say  or  know 

But  to  such  supreme  ends 

All  nature's  travail  tends? 
Matter  in  countless  forms  we  see, 
Forms  clothed  in  matter  endlessly; 

Each  combination  lives 

What  life  its  union  gives 
And  dies  because  its  bonds  imperfect  be. 
Is  it  too  strong  a  vision  for  men's  eyes, 

That  struggle  yet  with  tears, 
To  see,  beyond  their  day  of  doubts  and  fears, 
On  some  far  highland  of  the  future  rise 
The  crowning  warrant  of  these  laboring  years? 

For  such  will  rise,  be  sure — 

A  creature  fair  and  pure, 

A  creature  brave  and  bright, 

Mighty  with  God's  own  might, 

Made  perfect  to  endure; 
Wherein  are  met  in  marriage  strong  and  sweet, 

That  ever  strive  to  meet, 
Body  and  soul,  each  for  the  other  made, 

Each  glad  and  unafraid, 
Merged  in  one  essence  final  and  complete, 
Self-centred,  fed  with  free  and  painless  breath 
And  clear  of  time  and  ignorant  of  death. 


Upon  the  new  world's  westward  seaward  slope, 
Where  eager  eyes  catch  color  from  the  dawn 
And  flash  back  radiance  of  half-risen  hope, 
Where  life   may  drink  at   founts   still   unwith- 

drawn 

And  breathe  with  respiration  large  and  free, 
A -marvel  springs  to  meet  the  morning.     See, 
Between  the  great  sea's  utmost  inland  surge 
And  rising  hills  that  shelter  from  the  sea, 
In  a  glad  land  whose  seasons  melt  and  merge 
One  into  one  and  bring  all  wondrous  things 
That  sad  lands  wrest  but  from  reluctant  springs, 
All  flower  and  fruitage  of  earth's  largess,  stands 
This  latest  wonder,  as  divine  as  they, 
Albeit  the  fabric  of  weak  human  hands, 
Clay  shaped  by  kindred  clay. 

The  hills  deny  it  not:    dull  red  and  gold 
Against  their  vivid  verdure  and  the  blue 
Of  farther  mountains  rising  fold  on  fold 
Enrobed  in  haze  of  heaven's  diviner  hue; 
The  valley  takes,  as  one  that  takes  his  own, 
These   stately  splendid   simple   walls   of  stone, 
Broad  for  the  sunlight's  blessing,  low  to  keep 
Close  fellowship  with  earth's  great  heart  alone : 
Mute  majesty  of  guardian  towers,  and  sweep 
Of  arcades  gleaming  afar  in  pillared  pride, 
And  beauty  of  binding  arches  multiplied. 
Oh  fair,  surpassing  fair,  however  viewed! 
We  marvel  that  the  very  stones  disclose 
The  spirit  of  their  builder's  amplitude 
And  manhood's  deep  repose. 


Ah,  there  is  something  here 
More  than  these  outlines  clear — 
Within  this  body  some  warm  breath, 
Some  life  within  this  stony  death. 
For  faith  and  hope  have  builded  here  their  shrine 

And  wait  here  for  a  sign 
That  on  some  far  horizon  must  appear : — 
Hope  that  some  watcher  shall  descry  the  goal 
Of  all  this  cosmic  travail,  faith  profound 
That   knowledge   does   not  tread   one   ceaseless 

round 
But  climbs  from  star  to  star  and  pole  to  pole. 

Mark  then  what  threescore  years  and  ten  may 

do. 

For  threescore  years  and  ten  ago  was  born 
The  child  that  into  such  large  manhood  grew 
As  noon  gets  seldom  promise  of  the  morn. 
Ah  that  such  manhood  should  be  lost  and  leave 
Bowed  hearts  of  men  and  women  here  to  grieve 
Where   most   he   wrought.     Yet  here   is  balm ; 

for  lo, 
This   same  strong  manhood  taught  us  how  to 

weave 

Joy  of  bereavement's  very  woof  of  woe, 
Putting  our  manhood  to  the  proof  of  tears 
Wherethrough  hope's  rainbow  shines  across  the 

years. 

O  mighty  soul  that  trampled  sorrow  down, 
Triumphant    where    the     fallen    are    thickliest 

strewed, 

Receive  this  greater  than  a  laurel  crown, 
Man's  deathless  gratitude. 

[15] 


To-day  we  stand  where  thou  canst  stand  no  more 
As  once  thou  stoodest,  stand  and  sadly  gaze 
On  all  this  relic  of  thee,  till  before 
Our  grief   finds   words  the  grief   is  turned  to 

praise. 

Ah  sore-tried  heart  that  in  its  sorrow  turned 
To  one  that  with  its  own  heart's-anguish  burned, 
And  gathered  strength  to  quench  the  sorrow's 

fire; 
Ah  hands  that  faltered  not  when  heart's  love 

yearned 

For  some  memorial  of  its  dead  desire; — 
How  are  men  taught  that  death  is  not  so  strong 
But  love  may  rescue  something  from  his  wrong! 
And  thou,   whose  heart  and  hands  so  labored 

here, 

From  whose  dead  hope  a  thousand  living  spring, 
What  song  but  song  of  praise  should  reach  thine 

ear 
As  love's  high  offering? 

Here,  by  thy  steadfast  creed 
That  reach  of  human  deed 
Is  bounded  but  by  God's  immense, 
Immensurable  beneficence, 
And  by  this  stone  memorial  of  thy  trust 

That  man  is  more  than  dust, 
We  consecrate  us  to  the  work  of  need. 
Here  let  us  add  our  little  to  thy  large, 
Till  mortal  clay,  molded  to  perfect  form 
And  with  the  breath  of  God's  own  life  made 

warm, 

Shall  stand,  godlike  and  fair,  on  heaven's  bright 
marge. 

[16] 


TO  MRS.  JANE  LATHROP  STANFORD 

On  her  seventieth  birthday,  accompanying  a  Cop 
ley  print  of  Abbott  Thayer's  Caritas  presented  by 
President  Jordan  and  others. 


To  YOU,  beneath  life's  reddening  sunset  ray, 
Seeing  what  visions  with  reverted  eyes ! — 
Hope,  joy,  and  anguish,  boundless  sacrifice, 
And   faith   triumphant   on   the   Dolorous   Way; 
To  you,  in  sign  of  all  words  cannot  say, 

Thankful  at  least  to  know  your  sorrow  lies 
Safe  locked  now  with  the  dead  years'  sanc 
tities, 
This  friendly  token  let  us  bring  to-day. 

For  us,  still  sorrow  that  your  years  creep  on; 

For  you,  but  gladness.     The  world's  claim 
is  quit — 

Fulfilled,  and  nobly.     Happy,  who  can  sit 
At  eventide  and  look  back  to  the  dawn 
Saying,  Not  empty  has  the  day  ivithdrawn. 

Wait  for  the  sunset ;  peace  comes  after  it. 

August  22,  1898. 


STANFORD  MEMORIAL  CHURCH 

TEN  years  ago  we  saw  it  lie 
Fair  in  the  ward  of  hills  and  sky 
As  some  gold  bar  of  sunlight  thrown 
Across  the  valley's  emerald  zone, 
Yet  knew  not  all  the  dream  he  dreamed, 
The  master,  on  whose  fancy  gleamed 
That  day  a  vision  of  walls  and  towers 
Fair  beyond  any  dream  of  ours. 

The  master  passed.     But  dreams  abide 

To  work  their  will  on  dreamless  clay; 
And  lo,  around  us  here  to-day, 

In  form  and  feature  glorified, 

The  clay  to  noble  service  passed, — 

His  dream,  her  dream,  sure  deed  at  last. 

For  Build,  he  said,  and  Build,  said  she, 
Build  strong  and  fair,  build  fair  and  free, 
Until  the  uneasy  heart  shall  see 

We  build  not  here  for  earth  alone; 

And  though  we  shape  the  senseless  stone, 
Shapen,  it  shall  a  symbol  be 

Of  things  to  sense  itself  unknown. 
Knowledge  is  good,  fair  is  Truth's  face, 
Nor  shall  they  want  their  dwelling-place, 

[IB] 


With  servants  to  keep  wide  the  door 
And  swept  the  chambers.     Yet,  oh  more, 
Immeasurably  more  than  these 
Are  Heaven's  inscrutable  mysteries 
Whereof  the  earth-born  craves  a  sign. 
Build  then  for  them  a  fairer  shrine. 

Once,  twice,  the  word  was  sealed  with  tears. 
Oh  mystery  of  human  power, 
Transmuting  still  its  darkest  hour 

Into  a  light  that  down  the  years 

Sheds  utter  radiance.     From  their  deep, 

Unsunned,  undated  quarry-sleep, 

By  love's  Orphean  music  drawn, 

These  stones  have  taken  beauty  on ; 

And  beauty,  born  of  the  heart's  cry, 

Is  the  last  thing  the  world  lets  die. 

Knowledge  is  good,  truth's  face  is  fair, 

Yet  love,  well  taught  of  hope  and  faith 
To  look  beyond  earth's  fairest  wraith, 

Still  turns  a  wistful  countenance  where 

Abide,  all  beauty  of  truth  above, 

Immortal  loveliness  and  love. 

Up  then,  ye  walls  of  stone,  that  climb 

Unto  this  ministry  sublime, — 

From  pictured  apse  and  pillared  nave, 

Past  organ-loft  and  architrave, 

Roof,  gallery,  turret,  spring  and  slope 

Of  dome  and  spire  toward  heaven's  cope, 

And  there,  in  all  men's  sight,  uphold 

The  witness  of  your  cross  of  gold 

[19] 


That  Knowledge  shall  not  win  so  high 
But  Faith  and  Hope  still  star  the  sky. 

Ah,  splendor  of  visions  yet  beheld 
Of  men  as  in  the  long  ago 
When  Phidias,  Michelangelo, 
Their  bronze  and  marble  credos  spelled. 
And  Time,  that  puts  no  stain  upon 
Saint  Peter's  and  the  Parthenon, 
This  humbler  fane,  doubt  not,  shall  take 
And  clothe  with  honor  for  their  sake 
Who  built  it,  shrine  and  dome,  to  be 
A  message  and  a  memory, — 
Sundawn  and  sunset,  night  and  noon, 
Through  all  the  seasons'  changing  tune. 
Until  how  many  hundred  years 
Swell  the  long  tale  of  smiles  and  tears. 
Abiding  still  to  show  what  gleams 
Of  glory  crossed  our  darkling  dreams. 

Still,  as  adown  Time's  crowded  aisle 

The  eager  generations  file, 

Shall  fair  young  lives  of  man  and  maid 

Still  flit,  like  swallows,  out  and  in 

The  shadows  of  these  towers  and  win 
Strength  of  their  strength,  and  unafraid 

Go  forth  into  the  outer  din. 
Yea,  and  perchance  at  the  strife's  end, 

When  they  are  weary  of  the  strife 
And  strength  is  no  more  left  to  tend 

Upon  the  flagging  pulse  of  life, 

[20] 


O'er  eyes  that  in  far  lands  grow  faint, 
On  ears  that  listen  for  a  knell, 

Shall  steal  a  glory  of  blazoned  saint 
And  fall  a  note  of  chiming  bell, 

And  they  shall  dream  of  calm  that  fills 

A  vale  by  Palo  Alto's  hills, 

And  watch  once  more  the  twilight  flee 

O'er  mountains  by  the  Peaceful  Sea. 

February,  1902. 


[21] 


JANE  LATHROP  STANFORD 
Died  at  Honolulu,  February  28,  1905. 

No    MESSAGE  had  the  lark  that  with  the  sun 
Rose,  welcoming  another  jocund  day, 
And  poured  the  trebles  of  his  roundelay 
For  sheer  joy  of  the  springtime  just  begun. 
No  message  had  the  lilacs,  one  by  one 

Bursting  to  beauty  on  the  purpling  spray. 
Yet  was  the  silent  message  on  its  way 
That  told  our  bodeless  hearts  thy  day  was  done. 

At  last,  at  last,  from  the  long,  tireless  quest 
Of  love  and  labor,  sacrifice  and  pain, — 
Hope  but  a  mourner  in  sad  Memory's 

train, — 
At  last,  in  that  far  city  of  the  west, 

Beside  the  lingering  sunset,  the  release 
Thou  wouldst  not  ask  for  comes  and  brings 
thee  peace. 

March  I,  1905. 


[22] 


THE  OLD  AND  THE  NEW 

INDULGE  me  till  the  mood  be  past. 
We'll  rest.     My  brain  is  in  a  tangle, — 
The  stone  walls  rise  so  thick  and  fast 
About  the  quiet  old  quadrangle. 

How  quick  it  ages!     Ten  years'  sun, 

With  shifting  forms  and  faces  fleeting, 

And  lo,  the  thing  is  deftly  done, 

And  New'ness  comes  with  haughty  greeting. 

And  we — ah,  flag  we  in  the  race? 

Else  why  these  moments  atrabiliar? 
So  like  a  stranger's  seems  each  face 

That  once,  and  here,  was  most  familiar. 

For  Doctor  Jordan's  stooping  now, 

And  Gilbert's  head  is  almost  shiny, 

And  what  is  this  about  my  brow? 

And — can  it  be  the  air  tastes  briny! 

No,  I  but  dream.     We  will  not  let 

Time  practice  here  his  old  illusion : 

We  are  all  young.     And  yet —  and  yet — 
These  new  walls  work  a  sad  confusion. 

[23] 


I  cannot  catch  some  notes  that  rang 

Clear  then  ere  Youth  and  Hope  grew  sager ; 

I  miss  the  songs  that  Shirley  sang, 
The  carolings  of  Carolus  Ager; 

I  miss  the  shouts  that  swept  the  field 

When  Clemans  ran  or  Downing  tackled, — 

The  flush  of  victory  unconcealed, 

The  wild  acclaim  of  lips  unshackled. 

And  ah  for  days  and  hours  serene 

Of  drowsy  lab  and  droning  lectures, 

With  only  noisy  bells  between 

To   start  the  tourist's  vague  conjectures. 

The  good  old  days  of  lend  and  spend, 
When  courtesy  was  never  prodded, 

When  everybody  was  your  friend 

And  everybody  smiled  or  nodded; 

When  profs  held  "evenings"  on  the  Row 

To  keep  their  Eastern  memories  "greeneh," 

Or  if  good  fellowship  ran  low 
Slipped  softly  over  to  Encina 

Where  twinkled  Gale's  and  Campbell's  lights 

An  invitation  warm  and  rosy, 
Where  Mrs.  Comstock  read  o'  nights 

To  chocolate-sipping  circles  cosy, 

[24] 


Where  Anderson  dwelt  near  the  stars 

With  thoughts  and  fancies  idly  vagrant, 

While  Woodruff's  contraband  cigars 

Made  all  the  purlieus  faintly  fragrant. 

Oh  careless,  free,  Arcadian  days, 

Still  innocent  of  pomp  or  prestige — 

How  fast  they  vanish  in  the  haze 

And  leave  but  memories  for  vestige ! 

All  is  gone  by  now,  long  and  long, — 

The  cloister's  peace,  the  campus  glory, 

And  Kennedy's  goals  are  but  a  song. 
And  Zion's  wiles  a  fading  story. 

The  grapes  have  swelled  the  wine-vault's  store, 
Laid  is  the  ghost  of  tuum  meum; 

And  Palo  Alto  trots  no  more, — 

His  bones  are  set  in  the  Museum. 

No  more  the  Senator  rides  past 

With  hand  on  cane  and  gray  eye  gleaming; 
His  dreams  are  taking  substance  fast, 

But  he  sleeps  sounder  than  all  dreaming. 

And   Swain   and  Sampson,   Griggs,   and   Laird, 
Like  friends  that  greet  you  and  are  gone, 

Have  one  by  one  somewhither  fared 
And  I  sit  musing  on  this  stone. 

[25] 


Enough!     The  golden  past  was  ours; 

Ours  too  shall  be  the  future  golden: 
New  walls,  new  arches,  tiles,  and  towers, 

We'll  make  you  one  yet  with  the  olden. 

January,  1900. 


26 


PLATO  PASSES 

THEN  saw  I  in  my  dream  how  all 
The  train  was  rilled  with  these — 
Sharp-eyed  smooth-shaven  men,  who  smoked 

And  passed  their  pleasantries; 
And  Plato  took  his  seat  as  one 
Distinctly  ill  at  ease. 

At  length,  "Where  go  these  crowds?"  he  asked 

Of  one  who  scanned  the  news 
By  him,  "And  why?"     The  reader  paused, 

Then  answered  in  a  muse': 
"They  play  the  city's  daily  game, 

The  game  of  win  or  lose. 

"You  stake  your  all  on  a  wise  guess" — 
"All  what?"     "All  that  you  prize, 

Gold,  houses,  lands ;  and  if  you  win 
You  may  the  world  despise." 

"And  if  you  lose?"     The  stranger  smiled: 
"It  shows  you  are  not  wise." 

Then  Plato  mused  in  turn.     What  prate 

Was  this  of  wisdom?     Nay, 
Knew  he  not  Wisdom's  face  of  old? 

Walked  he  not  Wisdom's  way, 
Her  priest  and  prophet  unto  men? 

Alas,  was  he  passe? 

[27] 


Again  he  to  the  stranger  turned 
As  fain  some  way  to  seek 

Out  of  the  maze  that  puzzled  him — 
"These  are  hard  words  you  speak. 

Tell  me,  may  not  a  folk  be  found 
Whose  language  is  plain  Greek?" 


The  train  had  stopped.     The  stranger  caught 

A  glimpse  of  distant  walls, 
And  pointing,  said:  "They  say  that  Greek 

Is  spoken  in  yon  halls. 
I  know  not."     Straightway  Plato  rose: 

"Farewell,  the  daemon  calls." 


The  palm-lined  path  allured  his  steps; 

A  runner  past  him  sped, 
Bare-legg'd,  bare-armed:  "O  goodly  sight! 

Tis  as  of  old,"  he  said. 
And  keen  with  pleasure  grew  his  face, 

Elastic  grew  his  tread. 


Moreover,  by  the  bright  stone  walls 

One  with  a  golden  key, 
Greek-lettered,  welcomed  him:  "You  come 

At  a  good  time,"  said  he; 
"We  meet  to-day  to  speak  of  things 

You  wot  of.     Come  with  me." 


28 


Then  saw  I  in  my  dream  a  band 
Of  folk  that  took  their  way 

Into  a  quiet  room  where  men 

Were  wont  to  preach  and  pray, 

And  Plato  entered  with  his  friend 
And  sat  in  peace  as  they. 


And  when  the  band  was  gathered,  one 

In  modest  garb  arose 
Who  held  the  sage's  eyes  with  words 

Born  of  deep  thought's  repose, 
And  won  his  heart  with  maxims  such 

As  only  wisdom  knows. 


And  still,  as  followed  truth  on  truth 
That  glanced  at  man,  and  God 

In  man,  and  love,  and  virtue's  law, 
And  paths  in  duty  trod, 

Down  to  the  clear  and  earnest  close, 
Plato  would  nod  and  nod. 


Then  rose  another.     "What  is  he?" 
"A  poet."     "Oh,  profane! 

Tis  a  false  tribe — let  us  not  hear!" 
But  Plato  urged  in  vain. 

The  poet  promptly  drew  his  scroll, 
And  thus  began  his  strain : 

[29] 


A  bard  stood  in  the  market-place, 

A  cry  was  in  his  ears, 
The  burden  of  an  anguished  race 

That  wrestled  with  its  fears. 

'O  golden  age,'  so  rang  their  cry, 

'Past  is  it,  or  to  come, 
And  never  present?    Sage,  reply! 

Bard,  wherefore  art  thou  dumb? 

'Too  well  we  know  the  age  of  gold, 
With  Mammon  for  its  lord, 

When  all  things  fair  are  bought  and  sold, 
And  all  men  hoard  and  hoard. 

'But  still  beneath  the  load  we  grope 
Toward  somewhat  unattained, 

And  hungry  go  the  hearts  that  hope 
For  manna  never  rained! 

Then  spake  the  bard:    'In  vain  ye  -flout 

The  age,  for  lo,  the  sin 
Is  yours  who  blindly  look  zvithout 

When  you  should  look  within. 

'Peace  dwells  beside  the  spirit's  founts. 

Forego  your  quest,  and  own 
The  poet's  simple  creed,  who  counts 

The  dreamer  wise  alone. 


'He  looks  not  after  wealth  that  flies; 

His  acres  are  not  spread 
To  sun  and  rain;  his  treasure  lies 

Not  in  the  earth  you  tread. 

'But  in  the  hidden  land  of  dreams 
He  hoards  his  priceless  store, 

Where  all  is  gold  that  golden  seems 
And  glitters  evermore. 

'For  him,  from  flashing  globe  to  globe 
Love's  deathless  music  thrills, 

And  floivers  of  quenchless  beauty  robe 
Earth's  everlasting  hills. 

'For  him  the  Argo's  wreathed  prow 

Cleaves  ever-radiant  seas; 
For  him  the  golden  age  is  now, 

Here  his  Hesperides! 

So  rose  the  poet's  fervent  song 
And  died.     I  looked  to  where 

Plato  still  sat.     I  could  not  see 
His  face,  but  on  his  hair 

The  soft  light  fell ;  and  my  dream  closed 
With  Plato  nodding  there. 


[31] 


EPILOGUE 
to  above,  read  at  the  succeeding  banquet. 

Plato  looked  up  and  blinked:     "By  Pan, 
"I've  been  asleep,"  said  he, 

"And  dreaming.     Looks  like  a  plain  case 
Of  too  much  poetry. 

And  what  the  plague  was  it  about? 
Twas  English  all  to  me. 

"I  tried  to  follow,  and  I  think 

Some  rhapsody  I  heard 
About  how  dreaming  puts  men  wise; 

Then  everything  grew  blurred. 
Well,  none  can  blame  me  if  I  took 

The  fellow  at  his  word!" 


And  lurks  no  moral  in  this  song? 

Forsooth,  when  things  look  serious, 
And  dons  and  doctors  drone  so  long 

Their  adjurations  weary  us, 
Just  take  a  nap — you  can't  go  wrong, 

And  you  won't  go  delirious. 


[32 


WINTER  IN  SANTA  CLARA  VALLEY. 

LOOK  up  through  leafless  branch  and  spray; 
The  sky  spreads  lowering  and  gray 
From  east  to  west,  with  scarce  a  glow 
Where  the  noonday  sun  in  the  south  is  low. 
The  earth  lies  muffled  in  the  snow. 
And  hark,  upon  the  icy  air 
A  tinkle  of  bells  comes — listen! — where?— 
So  faint,  so  faint — 

The  dream  is  gone ! 
A  blackbird  twitters  on  the  lawn; 
The  sun  has  failed  not  since  the  dawn. 
And  roses  nodding  by  the  sill, 
And  poppies  gathering  on  the  hill, 
Cry  "Summer,  Summer,  Summer  still!" 

November  28,  1903. 


33 


GUI  BONO? 

A  CRY   across   the   years — from   hearts   wrung 
dry, 
From  lips  that  yearn  toward  life  and  lips  that 

die, 

Clear  through  the  whole  world's  indiscrim 
inate  wail, 
One   soul-convulsing,  hopeless,  querulous  cry — 

All  lands  have  voiced  it  and  all  ages  heard, 
Up  from  the  depths  where  mind  and  sense  are 

blurred, 

Where  darkness  gathers  over  failing  eyes 
And  hands  grope  blindly,  this  reiterant  word — 

"Cui  bonof    Wherefore?    Unto  what  good  end ? 

We  build  us  temples  and  the  storm-blasts  rend, 

We  raise  up  altars  and  the  lightnings  smite 

And  our  prayers  find  no  gracious  god  to  friend. 

"We  take  up  arms  against  the  ranks  of  wrong, 
We  battle  with  the  cruel  and  the  strong, 

And  lo,  for  guerdon  of  the  fight  we  get 
Scorn  and  derision   from  the  heartless  throng. 


34 


"We  sift  one  truth  from  out  the  world  of  lies 
And  carry  to  our  fellow-men  the  prize, 

And  lo,   we  get  for  our  toil's   recompense 
Envy  and  hatred  from  the  would-be  wise." 

So  cry  they  ever  from  the  haunts  of  care, 
From  gloom  of  disappointment  and  despair, 

Strong  souls  that  find  no  burden  upon  earth 
Save  man's  ingratitude  too  great  to  bear. 

Cui  bonof — Socrates  before  the  stand 

Of  judges  quailed  not,  and  with  steady  hand 

Took  up  the  cup  of  hemlock  in  his  cell 
And  drank  death  calmly  at  the  law's  command. 

But  friends  clung  round  him  sorrowing  to  see 
The  noblest  of  their  teachers  die  as  he 

That  died  through  hate  of  them  he  fain  had 

served, 
A  victim  to  their  blind  fatuity. 

And  well  they  might  ask,  weeping,  of  the  worth 
Of  all  his  strong  endeavors  upon  earth 

To  win  man's  liberation  from  his  chains, 
The  bonds  that  bound  him  from  his  spirit's  birth, 

If  this  were  the  conclusion,  if  men  spurned 
The  ransom  that  he  offered  them  and  turned 
Their  shafts  of  malice  against  him  whose 

soul 
Only  for  their  soul's  exaltation  yearned. 

[351 


And  one  before  him  upon  Aetna's  height 
Stood  under  the  Sicilian  stars'  calm  light 
And  pondered  upon  hope's  ineptitude, 
Choosing  his  portion  in  the  eternal  night. 


and  the  outward  world  are  dead  to  me"  — 
So  spake  he,  musing.     Like  a  whelming  sea 

The  past  rushed  down  upon  him  and  he  saw 
Or  deemed  he  saw  his  life's  futility  — 

The  days  when  robed  in  purple  he  had  trod 
Through  Agrigentum's  streets  like  some  great 

god 

And  men  spake,  marveling,  "Behold  the  man 
Who  hath  all  Nature  subject  to  his  nod!" 

Yet  these  same  men  came  to  him  and  besought 
To  know  the  magic  spells  whereby  he  wrought 

Such  marvels,  but  derided  when  he  told 
Of  wisdom  and  the  magic  power  of  thought. 

Wherefore  he  turned  from  them  in  very  shame 
Of  spirit,  and  upon  the  mount  of  flame 

He  gave  his  life  back  to  the  elements 
And  left  behind  a  story  and  a  name. 

One  later,  greater  than  these  great-souled  twain, 
Took  up  the  task  of  thankless  love  again; 

And  lo,  he  found  his  kingship  on  a  cross, 
Thorn-crowned,  the  sovereign  of  a  realm  of  pain. 


[36 


Yea,  he  who  claimed  God's  warranty  to  try 
To  win  the  world's  redemption,  God's  most  high, 

Cried  in  the  anguish  of  one  supreme  test 
A  very  human,  agonizing  cry. 

In  that  brief  moment  of  his  faltering  faith 
He  called  upon  his  God  with  broken  breath 
"Why  hast  thou  me  forsaken?"  and  there 

came 
Across  his  sight  the  darkling  mists  of  death. 

So  died  they  whom  our  latter  day  holds  great, 
Not  in  the  majesty  of  high  estate, 

But  burdened  with  the  whole  world's  scoffs 

and  scorn 
Until  they  sunk  beneath  the  crushing  weight. 

So  died  they,  seeing  not  at  all  as  we 
With  history's  light  upon  our  eyes  can  see, 
That  time  would  quit  them  for  their  earnest 

toil 
And  bring  forth  good  if  any  good  there  be. 

They  sat  amid  wrecked  hopes  and  baffling  fears 
And,  looking  backward  upon  barren  years, 

Asked  of  their  worth  but  found  them  answer 

none 
And  died  with  men's  gibes  ringing  in  their  ears. 

[37] 


Must  it  be  so  forever?     Nay,  not  must; 
We  gather  wisdom  slowly,  yet  we  trust 

This  lesson  has  been  learned,  if  only  this, 
That  man's  deeds  are  not  buried  with  his  dust. 


Cui  bono? — Ask  not  of  the  men  that  were; 
They  set  green  garlands  on  a  victor's  hair 

And  when  the  laurel  faded  this  same  quest 
Thou   mak'st  they   made  between   a   curse   and 
prayer. 

They  labored  at  the  loom  of  time  with  might, 
But  getting  the  design  not  all  in  sight 

What  marvel  if  they  scanned  the  unfinished 

web 
And  failed  to  read  the  colored  woof  aright? 

Cui  bono? — Ask  not  of  the  men  that  are; 
They  have  no  answer  for  thee.     They  unbar 
The  gates  of  fate  and  stand  as  thou  dost 

now, 
And  question  of  the  future  from  afar. 

But  turn  unto  the  records  of  the  past. 
There  wilt  thou  gather  how  no  man  forecast 
What  good  should  follow  on  the  least  deed 

done, 
And  doubt  not  such  things  shall  be  to  the  last. 


[38 


Or  search  thy  soul.     It  may  be  thou  wilt  find 
Some  faith  that  sees  where  other  sight  is  blind ; 

Some  strong  conviction  of  a  goal  to  win 
Albeit  its  glory  is  but  half  divined. 

Cui    bono?     This— that   what   thy   works    have 

won 
There  is  no  power  underneath  the  sun 

To  change  or  hide  forever,  nor  shall  age 
Put  any  slight  or  shadow  thereupon; 

This — that  the  universal  good  is  thine, 

That  thou  must  look  beyond  the  narrow  line 

Of  thy  scant  life's  horizon  till  thou  see 
The  point  where  all  lives  center  and  combine; 

And  chiefly  this — that  when  the  ages  fill 
The  balance  up  of  counter  good  and  ill, 

Thy  deeds,  not  lessened  by  the  lapse  of  time, 
Shall  turn  the  scale,  perchance,  as  thou  couldst 
will. 

June,  1887. 


[39] 


BEYOND  THE  PALE 

THIS  way,  this  way,— nay,  no  scruples! 
What!  afraid  of  the  mere  sight? 
There  are  things  to  see  quadruples 

Man's  inherent  virtue-mite. 
Stuff?     Believe  me.     Why  man,  bless  you! 

Taints  the  soul  each  foul  laystall? 
Brush  against  a  Cyprian's  dress  you 
Get  some  lint-leavings,  that's  all. 

This  way  then.    .    .    .    The  bright  lights  dazzle ; 

Down  the  floor  the  waltzers  go; 
Fumes  of  hot-house  flowers,  sweet  Basil — 

Ah,  the  death's-head's  near,  below! 
What?     That  "Danube"  strain's  entrancing? 

Certes — Sense  reigns — right  you  are. 
See  that  dark-eyed  houri  dancing? 

She  is  Sense's  queen — devoir! 

Stay  you — I  was  only  jesting; 

You  are  free  to  fawn  or  fleer. 
Save  your  dignity's  divesting 

— If  it's  worth  the  saving — here. 

[40] 


We'll  be  gone  soon.     Yet  a  minute — 

Look  there  floating  down  the  bal; 

There's  a  face — you  might  have  seen  it 

But  this  morning  in  the  mall. 

Lordly  then  and  gracious,  brutal 

Now  you  think  it — but  you  err; 
That's  the  gas-effect,  inutile 

For  a  man's  interpreter. 
Judge  it  when  God's  light's  attendant, 

Right  you  may  be — no,  not  must; 
'Chance  the  soul  is  yet  ascendant — 

Souls  are  souls  still,  bodies  dust. 

Not  your  doctrine?     Well,  no  matter, 

We'll  not  quarrel :  men  are  men, 
Souls  and  bodies,  be  the  latter 

Soiled  or  sinless. — Look  again, 
In  that  group  there,  by  the  mirror, 

There's  a  girl  might  turn  your  head; 
Gods,  what  beauty!     Let's  go  nearer. 

No?    You  heard  then  what  she  said? 

And  your  judgment — I  can  guess  it: 

All  her  beauty  now  is — null. 
But  is  that  fair?     Burns  a  cresset 

The  less  brightly  in  a  skull? 
And  this  girl's  soul,  as  you've  read  it, 

Mars  her  comeliness?     Retract! 
Give  the  body's  beauty  credit — 

All  things  can't  be  all  infract. 

[41] 


No  offense!     But  beauty's  beauty, 

Flesh  or  spirit,  masked  or  bare — 
Soot  can  make  the  silver  sooty 

Only  on  the  surface.     There, 
We'll  go  out  now  since  it  hurt  you 

Just  to  hear  that  Phryne  curse 
Ah,  this  cool  air's  best  for  virtue ! 

But  has  that  air  made  you — worse? 

March,  1887. 


[42 


COUNTERPOISE 

— WEEP?    Oh,  sir,  you  do  not  know; 

I  have  not  wept  since  one  glad  hour 
Well-nigh  a  score  of  years  ago — 

The  memory  of  it  hath  such  power. 

The  birds  were  waking  to  morning-song 

In  the  glade.    "O  sweet,  but  grant  me  this — 

I  shall  never  make  moan  my  whole  life  long, 
No  matter  what  follows  upon  the  kiss." 

I  said  that  and  she  laughed — but  turned 

And  gave   me  her  lips  and  her  heart  and 
her  soul 

For  one  brief  hour  till  daylight  burned 

Above  the  hilltops. — My  faith  keeps  whole. 

March  29,  1887. 


[43 


PALINGENESIS 

c   A    GLASS  of  white  champagne  if  you  please, 
/\    And  quickly." — Heavens!  how  my  brain 

reels ! 
Strange  that  such  ghastly  images 

Should  haunt  one  till  he  well-nigh  feels 
That  he  is  going  mad.     All  day 

They've  hounded  me  through  the  thorough 
fare 
And  driven  me  here  at  last  to  bay — 

"Ah,  thank  you;  yes,  just  set  it  there." 


Delicate,  faultless,  feminine  hands, — 

White  as  lilies  I  used  to  cull, — 
Too  languid  to  hold  the  jeweled  bands 

That  load  them.    See !  the  wine  looks  dull 
Beside  the  sparkling  of  that  ring; 

I  wonder  what  purchased  it,  love  or  gold, 
Or  another  shameless,  nameless  thing — 

To  think  of  it  makes  one's  blood  run  cold. 

[44] 


Perhaps  the  face  has  something  to  tell — 

Beautiful,  ay,  but  scarcely  blithe — 
One  dreams  of  seeing  such  faces  in  hell 

'  Wreathed  round  with  fire  till  they  writhe 

and  writhe. 

Am  I  dreaming  now?     No,  this  face  laughs — 

God!  what  a  tale  that  laugh  has  revealed! 

Curled  lips — I  could  better  bear  their  scoffs;— 

I  know  my  heart's-blood  is  nigh  congealed. 


But  wine  will  warm  it.     Why,  this  cup 

Is  strangely  like  the  one  I  grasped 
When  the  first  wine-draught  was  lifted  up 

To  my  lips  by  other  hands  gem-clasped. 
The  gems  still  sparkle,  they  say ;  and  her  hands — 

Nay,  ask  the  grave-worm.    What  if  she  saw 
My  soul  from  the  heaven  where  her  soul  stands, 

Would    she    shrink   to    think   of   the   hell- 


worm  s  maw 


Horrible  thoughts  are  these  that  rise — 

But  the  wine,  the  wine !  See  how  it  seethes ! 
One  almost  fancies  a  serpent  lies 

Coiled  at  the  bottom,  and  quietly  breathes 
Till  the  bubbles  mount  and  float  to  the  brim. 

But  what  are  these  shapes  my  eyes  define  ? — 
Moving  forms  in  the  goblet's  rim, 

Mirrored  clear  in  the  depths  of  the  wine. 


45 


Bright  lights  aglow  in  a  banqueting-hall 

Where   revelers   reel— but  the   lights   grow 

pale — • 
For  a  fierier  light  is  alive  on  the  wall — 

Letters  of  flame— and  the  cowards  quail. 
Belshazzar  shall  never  drain  his  glass; 

On  Babylon's  throne  a  Mede  sits  crowned; 
Thus  do  earth's  powers  and  princes  pass, 

Drowned    as    this    scene    in    my    wine    is 
drowned. 


But  another  succeeds  it— wreck  upon  wreck!— 
A  gilded  galley  afloat  on  a  stream, 

And  a  queen  recumbent  upon  its  deck 

With  face  more  fair  than  a  dreamer's  dream. 

A  Roman  matron  heard  of  that  face, 

And  cursed  the  beauty  (small  marvel,  too) 

That  in  Antony's  heart  usurped  her  place- 
She  died  therefrom,  if  the  tale  be  true. 


But  why  should  I  gaze  till  the  play  is  played? 

It  hurts  my  eyes;  and  the  tale  is  old — 
Power  and  a  possible  crown  betrayed 

By  a  harlot's  kisses  and  wine  and  gold. 
Things  greater  than  crowns  are  sold  each  day 

For  less  than  a  life  of  ease  by  the  Nile — 
I  have  heard  of  a  man  who  bartered  away 

His  soul  for  a  wanton  woman's  smile. 


Such  things  have  been;  nay,  such  things  are — 

But  why  do  I  muse  on  these  horrors  to 
night  ? 
The  maid  behind  the  painted  bar 

Stares  at  me  as  if  half  in  fright. 
Does  she  suppose  I  am  really  mad? 

Not  drunken,  no!  for  my  lips  are  dry, 
And  not  one  drop  of  aught  have  they  had 

Since  late  last  night  when  I  meant  to  die. 


Or  was  it  two,  three  nights  ago? 

For  all  it  killed  not  (cursed  boon!) 
The  drug  was  potent — how  can  I  know 

How  long  I  lay  in  that  deadly  swoon 
Before  the  sun  fell  on  my  face 

This  morn,  and  I  staggered  into  the  street 
To  walk  all  day  till  in  this  place 

I've  dragged  at  last  my  aching  feet ! 


My  head  aches,  too.     No  wonder,  when 

I've  seen  reenacted  here  in  my  wine 
The  drunken  orgies  of  women  and  men 

Whose  sins  are  centuries  older  than  mine 
And  alive  to-day,  though  their  lips  are  dumb. 

I'll  gaze  no  more  in  the  pale  champagne 
To  find  such  phantoms.     Whence  should  they 
come  ? 

Mirrored,  of  course,  from  a  feverish  brain. 

[471 


The  poison  left  it  so.     I  thought 

When  I  drained  the  draught  the  fever  would 

sleep. 
So  long  had  I  set  all  shame  at  naught 

I  deemed  life  little  enough  to  keep 
And  fain  would. have  taken  it.     Lo,  the  end! 

No  end  at  all.     Fate  bids  me  begin 
To  weave  anew  what  Time  shall  but  rend, 

To  tread  in  the  same  old  paths  of  sin. 


But  why  the  same  ?    Vice-haunted  paths ! 

Foul  with  all  things  unutterable! 
Choked    with    Death's    scythings,    swaths    upon 
swaths, 

Down,  down,  to  the  utmost,  nethermost  hell ! 
So  far  I  followed  them — yea,  to  this 

Last,  darkest  deep,  when  I  gladly  hurled 
Me  headlong  into  the  blind  abyss 

To  emerge,  if  at  all,  in  another  world. 


What  if  it  were  so?     Nay,  why  not? 

Between  me  and  those  perilous  ways 
The  great  gulf  yawns — were  they  once  forgot 

Might  life  not  come  upon  fairer  days? 
It  may  be.     Yet  could  I  bear  anew 

The  Pharisee's  sneer,  the  skeptic's  scoff? 
Nay,  who  shall  say  what  a  man  can  do 

When  his  soul  has  shaken  its  shackles  off? 


But  here  comes  Hebe  to  take  my  glass — 

She'll  be  surprised  to  find  it  undrained. 
How  tired  she  looks !     No  doubt  the  lass 

Finds  aught  but  roses  in  her  lap  rained. 
A  strange  life,  her  life !  serving  wine 

To  men  whose  souls  are — leprous-white ; 
For  money  too. — "Ah,  here's  the  coin. 

No,  thank  you,  I'll  not  drink  to-night." 


[49 


PANTHEISM 
(Improvviso) 

IAM  the  grave-grass.     Rest  you  here. 
For,  so  you  shed  no  tear, 
How  should  I  care  that  am  so  soft  and  green, 

Made  for  your  head  to  lean 
And  rest,  that  no  more  finds  sweet  rest 
On  softer  breast? 

.She  was  your  life?     And  you  lost  her: 

Your  life  runs  underground, 
From   springs  you   know  not,   unto  deep-water 

You  cannot  see  or  sound — 
Your  life  is  ebbed  and  gone, 
With  her  withdrawn. 

Have  you  no  hope?     None:  or  you  would 

Not  come  here  to  the  grave 
And  cry  upon  its  solitude 

Because  it  does  not  save 
What,  saved,  you  could  not  keep  so  sure 
As  graves  endure. 

Foolish!     Is  life  less  life,  you  ween, 

When  that  it  changes  form 
And  color,  turns  from  red  to  green, 

To  cold  from  white  and  warm? 
Could  you  but  clear  your  eyes  and  see 
Right,  I  were  she! 

1894- 

[50] 


QUESTING 

WHAT  wouldst  thou,  soul,  that  wilt  not  let 
me  be? 

Must  we  go  forth  into  the  world  again 
To   follow  through  the  haunts  of  strange- 
eyed  men 

Shapes  that  elude  us,  shadowy  forms  that  flee 
Unclasped  forever?    Why  resume  this  quest? 
Shalt  thou  win  rapture  or  shall  I  win  rest? 

Lo,  I  have  given  thee  what  a  man  may  give: 
Strong  wine  of  life  from  grapes  of  youth 

and  love, 
Desire  and  all  the  sweet  sharp  pangs  thereof, 

Delights  that  die  and  agonies  that  live. 

Must  struggle  on  until  thou  win  at  last 

Delight  that  lives  when  agony  is  past? 

Yet  ponder,  soul.    When  thou  shalt  be  unbound, 
When  thou  shalt  fling  aside  this  earthly  me 
And  out  upon  eternity's  tide  swim  free 
With  song  about  thee  and  light  of  heaven  around, 
Wilt  cry  not  then  as  thou  hast  ever  cried, 
Stung  with  the  old  desires,  Unsatisfied! 

December,  1891. 

[51.1 


BACCHANALIA 

(a  la   Swinburne) 

COME  with  the  cymbals,  come  with  the  pean, 
Nymph  and  Bacchanal,  maiden  and  boy, 
Drink  for  to-night  of  the  draught  Lethean, 

Fill  your  souls  with  the  fullness  of  joy. 
Away  with  the  cares  that  corrode  the  heart, 
Leave  off  all  things  wheresoever  thou  art, 
Phocian  and  Thracian  and  far  Cytherean, 

The  hopes  that  hunger,  the  griefs  that  cloy. 

Come  with  bodies  unbent  for  pleasure, 

Minds  unburdened  with  weight  of  wrong, 

Feet  alive  to  the  triplicate  measure, 
Hearts  attuned  to  a  Siren's  song. 

Come  and  partake  of  the  foaming  wine 

That  is  crushed  from  the  grapes  of  the  crowning 
vine, 

The  grapes  that  have  yielded  their  whole  heart's 

treasure 
To  make  men  happy  and  high  gods  strong. 

The  floor  is  swept  for  the  dancer's  tread, 
Come,  ye  nimble  and  fleet  of  feet; 

The  fruits  are  gathered,  the  feast  is  spread, 
Come  ye,  bring  ye  desire  and  eat; 

The  rich  red  wine  is  foaming  up 

To  the  beaker's  brim,  in  the  brimming  cup, 

Feast  till  your  souls  be  satiated 

With  all  things  goodly  and  all  things  sweet. 

[52] 


See,  they  come  from  the  hills  and  valleys, 

The    heights    of    heaven,    the    hollows    of 

earth, — 
The  Faun  from  the  mountain,  the  Nymph  frorr 

her  palace 

Under  the  fountain,  the  river's  birth. 
And  the  great  sea  pours  from  his  couches  of  sand 
Naiads  and  Nereids  out  on  the  land, 
And  lo,  as  aloft  I  lift  my  chalice, 

They    throng    around    me    in    madness    of 
mirth. 

"Evoi,  Evoi! — 
Shouting  the  song, 

Evoi,  Evoi! — 
Swelling  the  throng, 

Evoi,  Evoi! — 
Dancing  along." 

Around,  around,  with  a  joyous  bound, 

See  my  Bacchanals  go. 
Around,  around,  like  a  fleet-foot  hound, 

No  flitting  form  moves  slow. 
Around,  around,  to  the  cymbals'  sound, 

And  the  music's  liquid  flow. 
And   the   white   feet  twinkle,   the   bright   arms 

gleam, 

The  shining  locks  from  their  shoulders  stream 
As  the  dancers  move  through  the  maze  like  a 

dream 
Beneath  the  cressets'  glow. 


The  wan  lips  redden,  the  dull  eyes  brighten, 

The  nostrils  quiver  with  quickening  breath, 
The  feet  of  the  revelers  leap  and  lighten 

With  the  fire  of  the  draught  that  lighteneth. 
Aloft,  aloft,  with  the  drink  divine, 
Laugh  and  quaff  the  mercurial  wine 
Till  the  faint  blood  quickens,  the  pulses  brighten, 
With  love  of  living,  defiance  of  death. 

The  dull  eyes  brighten,  the  wan  lips  redden, 
The  color  mounts,  where  the  pallor  is  fled, 

Flushed  hearts  throb  harder  for  life  that  were 

leaden 
And  fleet  feet  follow  the  Bacchanal's  tread. 

On,  my  Maenad  and  Bassarid,  on ! 

Nymph  and  Naiad  and  Satyr  and  Faun, 

On  with  the  dance  and  the  mirth  till  ye  deaden 
Each  pulse  of  pain  in  your  veins  that  is  fed. 


The  wind  upheaps  and  the  wild  rain  levels 

The  fallen  leaves  on  the  forest-floor; 
The  Thracian  storm-blast  rends  and  dishevels 

Mountain  and  meadow  and  vale  and  shore. 
But  the  wine-god  sits  alone  by  the  streams 
And  his  withering  ivy-crown  droops  as  he  dreams 
Of  the  midnight  orgies  and  mad  sweet  revels 
That  have  been  once  but  shall  be  no  more. 

1885. 

[541 


LOSS  OR  GAIN 

I    HAVE  lost  her  just  on  the  verge  of  possession : 
A  word  misspoken — the  only,  first — 
And  we  are  parted  beyond  regression. 
Is  it  best  or  worst? 

Black  is  her  hair,  black,  beautiful,  splendid, 
Black  are  her  eyes,  too,  yea,  'tis  confessed, 

Just  for  a  man's  life's  ruin  intended; 
And  her  soul's — like  the  rest. 

So  then  we  are  parted,  and  I  am — sorry? 

Nay,  glad,  I  think,  when  I  think  at  all. 
What  should  I  do,  who  have  hoped  for  the  starry 

Heaven,  to  fall? 

And  what  at  best  would  have  been  the  gain  of  it  ? 

A    brief    term's    sweetness,    and    then — ah 

then  !— 
A  whole  life's  bitterness — there's  the  pain  of  it — 

Till  Death's  "Amen!" 

By  which  gain's  loss  I  am  truly  winner. 

I  shall  go  my  way — let  her  go  hers. 
But  who  is  the  saint  and  who  the  sinner? 

As  your  creed  prefers. 

[55] 


She  sins  in  deed  which  I  have  never 

Who  have  sinned  in  thought  which  she  does 
not. 

So  draw  the  line,  dissect,  dissever, — 
I  take  my  lot. 

March  6,  1886. 


[56] 


MUTABILITY 


T 


URN  back  with  me:  A  space  of  frost, 
Three  months  of  snow,  then  wind  and  rain, 
Blossoms  and  roses,  ripening  grain, 
Brown  leaves  upon  the  crisp  air  tossed, — 
The  year  has  run  its  round  again! 


Your  patience.  Let  me  talk.  Sit  here, 
Upon  this  grass,  beneath  this  tree, 
Let  my  head  lie  against  your  knee 

As  once  of  old,  as  then  last  year, 

When  neither  guessed  what  things  should 
be. 

How  we  were  happy!     Blue  sky-gleams, 
Paling  to  rose,  flushing  to  red, 
While  blood  of  sunset  dyed  the  dead 

Day  slain  ere  we  roused  from  our  dreams 
To  find  the  night  risen  lord  instead. 

That  was — one  year  ago:  so  long! 

So  much  that  has  been  is  no  more. 

We  sit  upon  this  river's  shore 
And  listen  vainly  for  the  song 

That  voiced  our  hopes  that  night  of  yore. 

[57] 


"Some  day,  some  day," — I  half  recall 

The  singers'  words — "some  happy  day, 
Ere  love  grows  old  and  life  grows  gray, 

Ere  sunlight  wanes  and  shadows  fall, 

Our  joy  shall  blossom,  Sweet,  some  day. 

"Some  day,  O  Sweet,  some  happy  day" — 
Ah  for  the  burden  of  that  song! 
"While  hearts  are  light  and  hope  is  strong, 

Our  love  shall  find  the  perfect  way, 

Some  day,  O  Sweet,  ere  long,  ere  long." 

What  of  the  singers  now?     Who  knows? 
They  glided  past  us  in  the  gloom 
And  vanished.     What  light  shall  illume 

Their  path  thereafter  or  disclose 

If  their  joy  ever  came  to  bloom? 

I  talk  of  others,  not  of  us ! 

It  had  not  been  so  once,  last  year. 

What  boots  it  now?     You  do  not  hear, 
And  though  your  hand  lies  prisoned  thus 

In  mine,  there  is  no  tremor  here. 

So  all  things  change.     This  very  grass 

Is  like  but    is  not  yet  the  old ; 

The  woodland  wears  not  last  year's  gold, 
And  on  the  river's  breast,  alas ! 

Strange  voices  float,  new  hopes  unfold. 

[58] 


And  what  of  us?     Oh  joy's  eclipse! 

The  starlight  trembles  but  not  you ; 

The  grass-blades  quiver  with  the  dew 
That  kisses  them,  but  on  your  lips 

No  kiss  of  mine  may  thrill  anew. 

What  care?     And  yet,  for  all  I  know 

That  hours  must  fade  and  passion  range, 
New  loves  grow  old  and  cold  and  strange, 

I  would  some  things  kept  always  so, 

I  would  that  not  all  things  did  change ! 

September,  1887. 


591 


BALLADE  OF  LIGHT  LOVES 

BETWEEN  the  rains  and  the  roses  we  met. — 
"O'h  lend  me  your  heart,  fair  maid,  I  pray, 
And  I'll  lend  you  mine  till  the  May  be  set, 

For  a  springtime   space  till   summer  gain- 

say." 

But  the  maiden  laughed :  "Not  I ;  nay,  nay ! 
There's  an  old  song  of  love  and  regret — 

This  lending  of  hearts  is  perilous  play, 
One  will  remember  though  one  forget." 

"And  that  is  your  fear,  my  dear  fillette? 

Nay,    make    we    merry    while    youth    holds 

sway, 
Nor  let  old  songs  and  sayings  fret" — 

Thus  lightly  I  laughed  her  fears  away. 

Oh  dream  of  love!     Oh  joy  to  stray 
Down  paths  with  never  a  thorn  beset! 

Oh  happy  hearts! —  But  alackaday, 
One  will  remember  though  one  forget. 

Ay,  time  hath  wings  no  love  can  let, 

And  the  spring  and  the  maiden  went  their 
way; 

[60] 


But  the  maiden  paid  not  back  the  debt 

Of  my  heart  she  borrowed  in  early  May. 
A  year  and  a  year  is  it  now,  and  gray 

The  skies  are  grown  and  the  woodlands  wet — 
Alas  that  I  should  have  lived  to  say 

One  will  remember  though  one  forget. 

Comrades,  take  heed  in  your  pastimes  gay: 
Light  loves  may  come  at  your  call,  and  yet 

Beware,  beware !  in  an  after  day 
One  will  remember  though  one  forget. 


61 


RONDEAU 

A    RUINED  rose — I  hold  it  so 
Up  by  its  broken  stem,  and  lo! 
In  fibrous  heart  and  shredded  sheath 
The  record  of  my  lady's  teeth 
Who  frayed  it  thus  an  hour  ago. 

I  asked  too  much  it  may  be,  though 
She  needed  not  such  meed  bestow, 
Nor  to  my  wounded  heart  bequeath 
A  ruined  rose. 

But  Time  will  even  all,  I  know; 

And  when  a  few  more  years  shall  show 
Fair  maidens  gleaned  from  hall  and  heath 
To  round  up  Beauty's  changeful  wreath 

My  lady  proud  will  lie  below, 
A  ruined  rose. 

December,  1885. 


[62] 


AUBADE 

MY  SONG  is  my  heart's  message.     Oh  for  art 
To  wing  it  with  the  wind  of  imminent 

morn 

And  waft  it  to  the  chambers  of  thy  heart, 
Lest  it  die  futile  ere  the  day  be  born. 
What  should  song  do  unheeded?  disavow 
Its  loving  ministry  that  no  vexed  ear 
May  grudge  it  guerdon?     Aye;  but  thou,  wilt 

thou 

Let  love  plead  now  arrear 
Nor  wake  nor  hear? 

The  moon  that  set  an  hour  ago,  yet  leaves 

A  trail  of  waning  splendor  in  the  west ; 
The  earth  stirs  softly,  and  the  broad  lake  beams 

With    mirrored    stars    set    gemlike    on    its 

breast ; 
The  night-wind  whispers  to  the  long  low  grass 

Of  fragrant  islands  in  some  southern  sea; 
The  heron's  hoarse  cry  comes  from  the  morass ; 

Shall  these  things  pass  and  we 
Not  hear  or  see? 


O  love,  fling  wide  the  lattice  ere  the  stars 

Shall  follow  in  the  moon's  wake,  set  or  die. 
Already  up  the  east  faint  aureate  bars 

Glow  harbingers  of  dayspring  in  the  sky. 
Sweet  the  acacia  sheds  its  scent  for  us, 

And  sweet  the  hedge-flowers  blossom  down 

the  row, 
And  the  sweet  jasmine  twines  half  amorous — 

Sweet  are  these  thus  although 
None  see  or  know. 


Yet  let  not  sleep  keep  these  delights  from  thee; 

Youth's  glory  like  the  night's  will  soon  be 

spent 
When  all  delights  as  one  to  us  shall  be 

And  one  end  of  them  all — evanishment. 
Awake,  arise,  and  shame  the  tardy  sun; 

Thy  queenship  over  all  the  flowers  declare 
Lest  in  the  pride  of  their  own  beauty  none, 

While  slumbers  one  more  fair, 
May  know  or  care. 


But  soft,  my  song,  she  comes!     O  passionate 

heart, 
Hush  thy  loud  beatings  lest  she  hear  and 

flee 

And  the  dawn  coming  see  our  light  depart 
So  sweetly  more  than  dawn  or  day  to  me. 


Nay,  love,  shall  scorn  usurp  thus  song's  demesne, 

Or  ever  love  love's  singing  weary  of? 
For  how  should  I  let  thee,  crowned  my  heart's 

queen, 

Graciously  lean  above 
Nor  care  nor  love? 

April,  1891. 


[651 


"THE  DEWS  LIE  THICK" 

THE  dews  lie  thick  in  the  meadow-grasses, 
And  heavy  with  perfume  and  faint  with  love 
The  cowslip  kissing  the  hare-bell's  stem 
Shivers  and  shrinks  from  the  wind  as  it  passes 
Sweet  as  the  breath  of  a  maiden  above, 
Soft  as  the  touch  of  her  garment's  hem. 

The  rivulet  sings  through  rustling  sedges 
Tall  rushes  and  leaves  of  lilies  outspread 

But  I,   close  down  to  the  mother's  breast, 
I  can  well  see  past  the  ragged  edges 
Of  tangled  grasses  and  weeds  overhead 
The  moon's  sharp  sickle  grow  pale  in  the 
west. 

I  hear,  close  couched  to  the  warm  earth's  bosom, 
The  song  of  the  stream  and  the  sigh  of  the 

wind 
But  my  heart  is  as  dry  as  the  dust  of  the 

plain 

.Shriveled  and  shrunk  as  a  blighted .  blossom, 
And    my    voice    grown    shrill    with    age    and 

thinned 
Pipes  ever  in  answer  a  plaintive  strain. 

[66] 


O  meadow-grasses,  O  fair  marsh  flowers 
O  runnels  of  water  and  waifs  of  wind 
I  pray  you  listen,  the  night  is  long. 
Though  the  sun  has  sunk  on  my  singing  hours 
My  breast  is  oppressed  as  a  heart  that  hath 

sinned, 
My  soul  can  only  find  solace  in  song. 


"SIT  CLOSER,  SWEET" 

SIT  closer,  sweet,  'tis  growing  dark; 
I  scarce  can  see  your  face 
And  the  great  trees  look  gaunt  and  stark 

About  this  lonely  place. 
Sit  closer  till  I  see  your  eyes' 

Blue  heaven  and  glad  cheek's  glow 
Once  more  before  the  daylight  dies — 
Sit  closer,  closer — so. 

I  know  the  color  is  not  gone 

From  them  although  the  night 
Has  stooped  in  jealousy  and  drawn 

Her  veil  across  my  sight. 
I  know  it  well  for  still  I  feel 

Your  heart  beat  fast  as  when 
An  hour  ago  you  felt  me  kneel 

Beside  you  in  this  glen. 

We  knelt  beside  the  spring  to  quaff 

Quite  other  draughts,  and  yet 
We  saw  our  mirrored  faces  laugh 

And  lean  until  they  met. 
What  if  my  arm  forgot  its  place 

And  stole  around  your  waist? 
What  if  my  hand  with  graceless  grace 

Upon  your  heart  was  placed? 

[68] 


I  felt  it  beating  wildly  then, 

I  feel  it  beating  now — 
Bow  down  your  golden  head  again, 

Lift  up  your  lovely  brow. 
The  spring  no  longer  mirrors  us 

Its  face  has  grown  quite  blind 
But  do  not  think  'twould  shame  it  thus 

To  see  us  twain  entwined. 


69] 


EERIE  TIME 

WHEN  the  clock  strikes  ten  and  the  lights 
go  out 

And  the  folks  come  up  to  bed, 
And  Uncle  John  quits  shuffling  about 

In  the  attic  overhead; 
And  the  dogs  begin  to  bark  at  the  posts, 
And  the  night-owls  call  to  the  elves, 
Then  back  in  the  walls  I  know  the  ghosts 
Are  ready  to  stir  themselves. 

They  peep  to  see  if  the  coast  is  clear, 

And  then  step  cautiously  out, 
And  nod  and  whisper  so  I  can't  hear, 

But  I  know  what  they're  about. 
They  are  going  to  play  their  games  again 

Of  Catch-me-if-you-Can, 
And  Tag-across-the-Counterpane, 

And  Hide-and-Find-your-Man. 

They  never  stop  to  open  doors 

For  fear  a  hinge  might  creak, 
But  glide  right  through  the  walls  and  floors — 

What  funny  Hide-and-Seek ! 
And  they  never  laugh  or  speak  out  loud, 

But  when  the  hall-stairs  crack 
I  know  some  ghost  has  tripped  on  his  shroud 

And  fallen  and  hurt  his  back. 

[70] 


Then  I  snuggle  closer  down  in  bed 

So  I  can't  hear  the  wail 
Of  the  little  squeak-mouse  overhead 

When  a  ghost  steps  on  his  tail; 
While  out  of  dreamland  the  fairy  hosts 

Come  trooping,  till  papa  calls 
"Up  Rob!"  and  I  jump,  and  behold,  the  ghosts 

Are  all  gone  back  in  the  walls. 

May,  1903. 


[71] 


"THE  BUILDERS   BUILDED" 

THE  builders  builded. 
"Master  of  life  and  death, 
Who  holdest  in  thy  keeping  man's  frail  breath, 
Who  hast  his  competence  to  give  and  take, 
His  hunger  to  appease,  his  thirst  to  slake, 
His  towers  of  promise  to  uphold  or  raze, 
Grant  me,  I  pray  thee,  some  meet  measure  of  days 
While  I  upbuild  me  here  before  the  sun 
A  goodly  lordly  palace  that  shall  be 
Most  fair  for  all  men's  eyes  and  lips  to  see 
And  praise  me  building."    So  one  saith,  and  one, 
With  head  bowed  down  upon  his  suppliant  knee, 
"Master,  thy  will  be  done." 

"Lo,  Master,  here  are  gold  and  glass  and  sand 

Laid  ready  to  my  hand, 

And  in  my  heart  a  high  unfaltering  trust! 

Mark  while  I  build  from  out  this  terrene  dust 

A  structure  that  shall  witness  and  withstand 

Time's  ravages  and  rust 

And  be  to  thee  a  glory  and  a  grace 

To  thy  poor  slave  that  comes  before  thy  face 

Preferring  prayer,"  another  saith;  and  one, 

With  head  still  bowed  in  suppliant  wise  upon 

His  knee,  made  orison: 

[72] 


"Good  Master,  if  it  be  that  so  thou  art  willed, 
Grant  me  some  space  ere  my  life's  space  be  filled, 
Some  little  time  ere  my  time's  sands  be  run 
And  my  work-season  done, 
To  make  this  worthy  of  thee  that  I  build." 

The  days  fell  fast  of  sun  and  wind  and  rain 
That  brought  brief  change  upon  the  patient  plain, 
Swift  supersession  of  the  dawn  and  light 
And  noon  and  dusk  and  night. 
And  sunrise  upon  sunrise,  moon  on  moon, 
Saw  through  clear  air  or  broke  through  cloud 

and  mist 
Where  their  first  rays  and  the  last  mist-strays 

kissed, 

To  find,  all  hours  and  seasons,  late  or  soon, 
Sundawn  or  plenilune, 

With  plumb  and  trowel  in  either  tireless  hand 
The  builders  building  on  the  level  land. 

No  rains  of  winter  and  no  winds  of  spring, 
No   heat    or   blight   that    summer   and   autumn 

bring, 

No  dearth  of  gladness  and  no  gloom's  excess, 
Could    quench    the    ardor    in    their    hearts    that 

burned 

Or  sear  their  spirit's  vigor;  nor  discerned 
They  of  unwavering  resolution  less 
Nor  more  of  weariness 


[731 


In  the  strong  souls  that  planned,  the  hands  that 

wrought, 

Than  to  a  man's  impermanent  lot  may  fall, 
Being  mortal  and  not  made  for  godlike  thought, 
Being  death-foredoomed  and  not  for  life  at  all. 

So  without  pause  for  rest  or  rest  for  pain 
Right  manfully  they  labored  till  there  rose 
Heavenward  upon  the  fair  broad-breasted  plain 
Three  marvels  such  as  man's  poor  magic  shows, 
Three  dazzling  diverse  structures.   Sheer  and  tall 
With  square-cut  base  and  vertical  smooth  wall 
That  swerved  not  from  the  plumb-line  half  a 

hair 

One  shot  into  the  thin  blue  upper  air 
Tower-like,  and  the  eye  following  found  no  flaw 
In  its  most  fair  proportions,  only  saw 
A  straight  bright  shaft  of  white  pure  polished 

stone 

That  lifts  its  lofty  head 
Above  the  sand-drift  of  its  basal  bed 
Most  like  some  pillar  of  heaven  that  stood  and 

shone 

A  stately  splendid  thing 
Made  for  earth's  glory  and  man's  marveling. 

More  humble  as  with  less  aspiring  crown, 
Yet  far  surpassing  it  in  matchless  grace 
The  second  held  its  place 
Upon  the  level  of  the  low  sand-down. 
Glitter  of  gems  and  ivory  and  gold, 
And  crystals  manifold 

[74] 


That  turned  the  superstructure  into  flame, 

Marked  it  for  admiration  from  afar 

Like  some  transplendent  scintillating  star 

Set  upon  earth  to  shine  against  the  sun.  • 

Story  on  story  widening  upward  rose, 

Each  richer  and  more  radiant  than  the  last, 

Nor  might  the  keenest  wondering  search  disclose 

More  for  support  to  the  erection  vast 

Than  a  mere  pivot-point  which  scarcely  seemed 

To  touch  the  earth  beneath  it,  till  one  deemed, 

So  delicately  poised  it  stood  amid 

The  light  and  splendor  round  about  it  cast, 

He  gazed  upon  some  fair 

Inverted  and  enchanted  pyramid 

Swung  by  an  unseen  potent  spirit  there 

To  float  forever  in  the  ambient  air. 

And  what  of  him  that  had  so  humbly  prayed? 
His  spirit  had  not  faltered,  nor  had  stayed 
The  hands  that  strove  to  work  the  spirit's  will. 
And  yet  they  wrought,  albeit  they  wrought  with 

skill, 

No  marvel  such  as  those  that  stood  beside 
Magnificent  in  pride, 
No  glittering  show  of  meretricious  art, 
But  fashioned  in  some  simple,  chaste  design, 
Of  perfect  symmetry  in  every  part, 
Of  classic  grace  in  every  curve  and  line 
A  temple  and  a  shrine 
In  outward  symbol  of  the  builder's  heart, 
Gleam  of  white  marble  shadowless  and  pure, 
From  massive  plinth  to  broad  entablature. 

[751 


AT  SEA 
(January  4,  1913) 

PART  merges  into  whole 
Here  where  abideth  free 
The  universal  soul 

And  time  has  space  to  be. 


GIBRALTAR 

EXULT!   the  grey  Atlantic 
Is  left  behind  at  last. 
Rejoice!  the  shores  romantic 
Loom  dimly  thro'  the  vast. 

And  is  that  dark  Gibraltar? 

Oh  brighter,  closer  grow! 
Lo,  there  was  Ammon's  altar! 

Lo,  here  is  Gades !     Lo, 

These  are  the  very  portals 
Of  that  old  sea  of  doom 

Where  mortals  and  immortals 
Have  labored  at  the  loom 

[76] 


Of  life  for  ages,  weaving 
What  ages  still  shall  rend, 

Till  love  shall  cease  achieving 
And  hope  and  fear  have  end. 

O  shores  of  man's  endeavor, 
O  shrines  of  gods  o'erthrown, 

O  sea  whereon  forever 

The  winds  of  fate  are  blown, 

Be  still  within  your  giving 
Some  gift  to  us  who  cry, 

To  make  us  richer  living, 
Nor  leave  us  loth  to  die. 

Exult!  the  grey  Atlantic 

Fades  like  a  troubled  dream — 

While  shapes  of  shores  romantic 
On  the  horizon  gleam. 

See,  there  is  dark  Gibraltar! 

Oh  brighter,  brighter  grow. 
And  here  was  Ammon's  altar! 

Ceuta !    Gades !    Lo. 

January  u,  1913. 


[77] 


CAPRI 

HERE  rest  and  dream.    The  waters  rest, 
The  boats  scarce  rocking  on  their  breast. 
The  cloud  rests  on  the  purple  crag; 
And  the  long  hours  of  noonday  lag, 
As  if  the  sun  himself  would  rest 
Above  this  Island  of  the  Blest. 

Home  of  the  fabled  Sirens.     Home 
Beloved  of  the  lords  of  Rome, 
When  cares  of  empire  heavy  prest 
Upon  the  hearts  that  longed  for  rest 
As  sweet  to  Caesars  as  to  us, — 
Augustus  and  Tiberius. 

Not  ours  their  burdens.     Yet  have  we 
Sought  too  this  island  in  the  sea, 
Resigning  life's  more  ample  powers 
To  dream  awhile  among  its  flowers, 
And  watch  the  sun  slope  to  the  west, 
Brief  sovereigns  of  a  realm  of  rest. 

March  21,  1913. 


[?*] 


SORRENTO 

(Hotel  Lorelei) 
Improvisation 

ON  THE  Lorelei's  terrace  lounging, 
While  the  warm  sirocco  blows, 
Oh  the  lazy  life  we're  leading 

In  the  name  of  earned  repose! 

Darkly  blue  Vesuvius  rises 

Eastward  o'er  the  olives  gray; 

Naples  shimmers  on  the  shore-line 
Far  across  the  wind-swept  bay. 

Out  to  westward  Ischia  slumbers ; 

Round  the  headland  Capri  lies, 
Jewel  of  the  fairest  circlet 

Underneath  Italian  skies. 

So  the  spirit-soothing  visions 

Round  about  us  group  and  close, 

As  we  loiter  in  Sorrento 

And  the  warm  sirocco  blows. 

March   26,    1913. 


[79] 


ALBERGO  SANTA  CATERINA 
Amalfi 

A  DOOR  in  a  gray,  blank,  windowless  wall 
That  winds  along  the  street. 
Pass  through  and  feel  life's  burdens  fall, 

Disbanded,  at  your  feet: 
Saint  Catherine's  peace  is  over  all 
Within  this  still  retreat. 

Your  back  is  turned  upon  the  throng; 

Before  you  the  sky  and  the  sea, 
And  a  terraced  garden  where  all  day  long 

The  orange-flower  woos  the  bee, 
And  the  wild  canary  stills  his  song 

In  the  shade  of  the  carob-tree. 

The  sea  calls  low,  or  the  sea  calls  loud; 

The  terraces  spread  to  the  sun; 
Or  the  rain-drops  fall  from  the  lowering  cloud 

Till  the  iris-cups  o'errun. 
And  winds  may  pipe,  or  winds  may  cease — 

It  matters  not  what  befalls, 
When  over  the  spirit  hath  stolen  the  peace 

That  dwells  in  Saint  Catherine's  walls. 

April  2,  1913. 

[80] 


CANTO  DELL'AMORE 
(Carducci) 

I   KNOW  not  how,  but  all  my  thoughts  to-day 
Come  winged  in  splendor  of  the  sapphire's 

hues, 

Thro'  all  my  veins  I  feel  the  poignant  play 
Of  sighs  that  earth  and  the  glad  heaven  dif 
fuse. 
Every  new  sight  doth,  like  a  wave  restored 

Of  ancient  feeling,  my  warmed  bosom  move, 
And  my  tongue  cries  out  of  its  own  accord 
Unto  the  earth  and  heaven,  O  Love,  O  Love, 


1907. 


[81 


AVE  MARIA 

(Carducci) 

AVE  MARY!     When  on  the  air  of  evening 
Steals    the    low-voiced    sweet    salutation, 

mortals 

Meekly  bare  the  brow  and  bow  down  the  fore 
head, 

Dante  and  Harold. 

Slowly  floats  the  melody,  as  of  soft  flutes, 
Passing  by  unseen  between  earth  and  heaven, — 
Spirits  peradventure  that  were,  that  are  now, 
Spirits  that  shall  be? 

Gently  o'er  life's  weariness  draws  oblivion's 
Veil;  a  pensive  sighing,  a  tranquil  longing, 
Ev'n  an  impulse  sweet  unto  tears,  to  weeping, 
Steals  on  the  spirit. 

Husht  the  brute  creation  and  man  and  all  things ; 
Sunset's  rose  fades  out  in  the  darkning  azure; 
Still  the  lofty  undulant  summits  murmur, 

Ave  Maria! 
1907. 


[82; 


PETRARCA:  IN  MORTE 

LII. 

I   FEEL  mine  ancient  air;  I  see  draw  nigh 
The  blessed  hills  where  that  fair  light  arose 
That    kept    mine    eyes,    while    Heaven    such 

bounty  chose, 

Ardent  and  glad,  now  sad  and  never  dry. 
Oh  perishable  hopes!     Dreams  born  to  die! 
Withered  the  grass,  turbid  the   water  flows, 
And  empty  and  cold  the  nest  of  her  repose 
Wherein  I  lived  that  longed  in  death  to  lie, 

Hoping  at  last  to  win  from  her  soft  plaining 

And  the  fair  eyes  that  made  my  bosom  burn 
Some  respite  from  this  sorrow's  ceaseless  pain 
ing. 

I  have  served  a  lord  of  cruelty  and  scorn — 
Who   burned    of    old,    before    my   bright    fire's 

waning, 
And  now  above  its  scattered  ashes  mourn. 

1896. 


[83] 


LIII. 

Is  this  in  truth  my  splendid  phoenix'  nest 
Where    first    her    plumes    of    gold    and    purple 

gleamed, 
Whose   wings   meet  shelter   for   my  poor  heart 

seemed, 

For  whom  my  words  and  sighs  are  still  ex 
pressed  ? 

O  primal  root  of  my  so  sweet  unrest, 
Where  is  the  beauteous  face  whence  the  light 

streamed 

That  kept  me  alive  and  joyful  while  it  beamed? 
Sole  upon  earth,  in  heaven  now  art  thou  blest. 

And  thou  hast  left  me  here,  grief's  eremite, 
Returning  ever  to  the  spot  by  thee 

Made  consecrate  and  honored  in  my  sight. 
Ah  dark  with  gathering  night  the  hills  I  see 

Whence  thy  soul  took  to  heaven  its  final  flight, 
And  where  thine  eyes  made  day  of  night  for 
me. 

1896. 


[84] 


LIV. 

Now  hast  thou   shown  thine  utmost  power  at 

once, 

O  cruel  Death,  now  hast  thou  in  an  hour 
Made  poor  Love's  realm,  and  Beauty's  light 

and  flower 

Hast  stripped  and  shut  within  the  narrow  sconce  ; 
Now  hast  thou  life  despoiled  of  all  it  owns 
Of  ornament  and  honor's  sovereign  dower. 
But  fame  and  worth  defer  not  to  Death's 

power : 
These  are  not  thine— keep  thou  the  naked  bones. 

The  rest  be  heaven's,  that  by  its  shining  clear, 
As  by  some  brighter  sun,  is  glorified, 
The  rest  on  earth  in  good  men's  thoughts  abide. 
Be  thy  heart  conquered  in  its  victory's  pride 
By  pity  of  me,  new  angel  in  that  sphere, 
As  mine  was  conquered  by  thy  beauty  here. 

1896. 


[851 


LXXXIX. 

Stray  little  bird  that  on  thy  way  goest  singing 
Or  haply  wailest  for  the  hour  grown  late, 
Beholding  night  and  winter  at  the  gate 

And  the  bright  season  swiftly  backward  winging ; 

Knewest  thou,  as  well  thou  knowest  the   deep 

woes  stinging 

Thine  own  heart,  so  my  not  unlike  estate, 
Thou'ldst  fly  unto  this  breast  disconsolate 

And    share    with    mine    thy    cries    of    sorrow's 
wringing. 

I  know  not  if  like  griefs  by  us  be  borne, 
Since  she  thou  mournest  still  may  living  be, 

While  envious  Death  and  Heaven  leave  me  for 
lorn: 
But  the  sad  hour  and  surging  memory 

Of  all  the  sweet  and  bitter  years  outworn, 
Bid  my  heart  cry  in  pity  unto  thee. 

1896. 


[86] 


DANAE'S   LAMENT4 
(Simonides) 

AND  while  she  lay  within  the  carven  chest, 
Rocked  by  the  soughing  winds  and  troub 
led  waves, 
Fear    crept    into    her    not    untearstained 

cheeks, 

And    clasping     Perseus     closelier     round     she 
spake : — 

"O  child,  what  woes  are  mine !    Yet  thou  sleep'st 

sound. 
In  infant  heedlessness  thou  slumberest 

Within  the  bronze-nailed  chest, 
While  lampless  night  and  darkness  swathe  thee 

round. 
Nor  though  the  washing  brine  bedew  thy  hair, 

Takest  thou  care, 

Nor  though  the  wind  lift  up  its  voice  aloud, — 
Face  to  my  face,  wrapped  in  thy  purple  shroud. 
Not  fearful  unto  thee  the  name  of  Fear ! 
Else  wouldst  thou  to  my  words  lend  readier  ear. 

"Yet  sleep,  my  babe,  I  bid  thee  sleep,  my  child, 
And  sleep,  ye  waters  wild ; 
Sleep,  mine  insatiate  woe ! 

And  grant,  O  father  Zeus,  some  respite  come 
Out  of  thy  mercy.    Nay,  too  bold  I  know 
This  boon  I  ask,  past  justice  to  bestow : 
I  pray  thee,  pardon  me,  my  lips  are  dumb." 

*From  a  volume  of  translations  from  Pindar  and 
other   classic  poets  now  being  collected. 

[87] 


FROM  THE  JAPANESE, 
i 

HOKKU 
A  voice 

Hito-Koe-wa 

(was   it)    moon      (that)    called 

Tsuki-ga  nai-ta-ka 

the  cuckoo 

Hototogisu 

I  lookt  to  where  the  cuckoo  sang, — 

O  moon,  was  yours  the  voice  that  rang? 

ii 
WAKA 

The   cuckoo 

Hototogisu 

singing         in  the  direction 

Naki-tsuru  kata-wo 

(I)  looked 

Naga-mu-re-ba 

only     of  the  dawn 

Tada  ari-ake-no 

the  moon     being  there 

Tsuki-zo  nokoreru. 

Forth  I  went  at  the  cuckoo's  cry. 
I  saw  the  bright  moon  in  the  sky, 
But  nowhere  saw  the  singing  bird. 
O  moon,  was  yours  the  voice  I  heard? 

[881 


Ill 
OLD  LOVE  SONG 

From  thee       parted     (I) 

Kimito  wakare  te 

pine-grove        as  I  passed 

Matsu-bara  yuke  ba, 

pine  tree  from     dewdrops    whether 

Matsu  no  tsuyu    yara 

tears       whether 

Namida   yara. 

When  I  roam  the  wood  at  evening 
And  the  pine-trees  drip  with  dew, 

Oh  the  dewdrops  from  the  pine-trees ! 
Oh  the  tear-drops  shed  for  you! 


[89] 


1903 


312441 


-  / 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


